Liquid Fire
by EVOLustory
Summary: "Catch me, catch me, if you can." - A biker gang AU where Kuroro stalks a blond boy with pretty brown eyes.
1. Marbles

**AN:** We have all figured I am incapable on multi-chapter fics. So I went and divided a one-shot into multiple pieces SO WE CAN ALL PRETEND I CAN ACTUALLY ACCOMPLISH SOMETHING MORE THAN A ONE-SHOT. Anyway, I got back into this fandom right when Togashi announces an hiatus again. I have the best timing as usual.

 **tl;dr: this is going to be a biker gang AU because my babes in leather jackets and riding sick bikes. Chain pair + leather = extra kinky**

also: I have this story on **AO3** and it has a better format so pick your battle. A **FST has been uploaded to 8tracks** too! Check AO3 for link. Read and review my loves.

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 **1\. Marbles**

 _Golden honey_ , refractive hues encased in marble kaleidoscopes that tease the world behind curtains of blond lashes.

 _Catch me, catch me, if you can._

Tonight too, a cool autumn evening where breaths take shape in the air, they are guarded by his gang of three. There is no threat in a number so small; no extra threat in the black leather on their shoulders or the loud hum of engines. Not when he has a gang of twelve at his call.

Yet tonight too, he watches, alone on his dark, dark bike, hair dripping the aftermath of an earlier rainfall. Wait, even when he finally manages to catch those honey marbles for a second longer than usual, he waits quietly on the worn leather seat.

Not yet; not tonight.


	2. Weird Things

**2\. Weird Things**

Two kids joined at the hip, one older kid, and a man who seems too old to belong. Not the strangest group around, but definitely somewhere from the weirder side of the spectrum. The two young ones share a silver bike while the other two ride their own: red and black.

That was them, joy-riding into a part of town that most know is Spider turf.

And that was how he found him, the blond boy on the ruby red bike, wearing a jacket larger than himself.

"Oi, whatcha doing around our turf, kids? Got lost on your way home?" It was Uvogin who approached them first, with one hand around his helmet and the other around a beer.

Nobunaga whistled where he stayed seated with the rest of the Spider, " _Look_ at those bikes. Did Daddy buy them?"

They stalled, the silver-haired kid frowned with a calculating glare and the blond one blinked with a poise of complete nonchalance. Like a barren tree against autumn winds, having no leaves left to be stirred, it stands unwavering amidst externalities.

"Is there a problem with us using a public road that connects this specific part of town to the next?"

While the man with them looked possibly scandalized with the blond's bold retort, the two kids looked on with mild amusement and youthful curiosity.

A snort and the choked off end of a booming laugh from the front and hushed murmurs from behind. "Oi, Kuroro, you hear that? This kid's a fucking riot."

"You know about the Spider?"

"I know of them."

"And you think it's wise to come to our front steps looking and sounding so hostile?"

"I know of them, but I don't particularly care for them." An inkling of a grin pulled at the corner of the Spider head's lips. "Besides, _he_ came to us personifying hostility. I wouldn't expect anyone to greet that with sugar."

 _A riot._

"I see. Then I apologize on Uvo's behalf. Please continue on."


	3. Shadows and Echoes

**3\. Shadows and Echoes**

Since the first meeting, the gang of four would appear around the roads that the Spider frequented. Like an echo, a wisp of gold would round a corner when he turns his head around. Or the idiosyncratic patter of excited footsteps behind short heads of silver and black—the reflective glint off the tall one's shades. Such instances occurred enough times for Kuroro to have begun collecting moments in a mental diary.

The reprimanding shouts of _"Not here"_ and _"They can see us"_ following the shadow of red and silver paint-jobs: Wednesday afternoon.

A flash of gold hidden between trails of dust and exhaust: Wednesday midnight.

The familiar ruby red bike parked outside a convenience store: Friday.

A silver-haired kid and a spiky-haired kid on the phone with a _"Kurapika"_ : Sunday.

The oldest looking man's arm hung around the blond's shoulders: Monday.

A pair of warm brown eyes meeting his over a stack of books in the library: Wednesday again.


	4. This and That

**4\. This and That**

This is not the same as that.

The fourth limb does _that_ well; but this is not that. This is an adoration of, an attraction to, a very commonly (and openly) admired part of the human anatomy—aesthetically. In art, and culture, the eyes are thought of as the most expressive element to the outer countenance. A window that allows us a peek of what lies inside.

And anyway, it's not like he obsesses singly with those honey-glazed eyes. No, he appreciates the whole being—the dense lash line, the peachy fair skin, the golden tresses, the (probably) toned limbs swallowed by oversized zip-ups and leather jackets, the fingers peeking out of low-hanging cuffs and the red jewel dangling from his ear and the _lips_ —

Point: This is not borderline deviant behaviour.


	5. Wednesday, October 17th, approx 4:35PM

**5.** **Wednesday, October 17** **th** **, approximately 4:35PM.**

I saw him at the convenience store again. He was by himself, came out with only a bottle of water. Figured there was no better time, having already made distinguished eye contact with him at the library and finally finding him alone when _I_ was alone. I went up and formally introduced myself to him; he was as guarded as I thought. He doesn't know this, but in being so, he actually makes the experience that much more worthwhile.

His name is Kurapika.

He's interesting—refreshing, not only visually, but characteristically also. A cute little curiosity that fleetingly fights for my attention; there, but only when I want it to be there. I've been more obsessive about weirder things so—


	6. Wednesday

**6\. Wednesday**

He parked his bike (sleek, slick, _black_ : blackout throughout each inch of matte frame, and glossy midnight paint striking through the absolute darkness like the mercy of moonlight) in front of the boy's bike (compact, rounded, and astoundingly bold: a shadow-like frame all along, acting as a backdrop for the glaring red rims adorned likes fearsome eyes) when he noticed the same silhouette pacing before a cooler of drinks. He dismounts, making toward the automatic doors without much of an introspective thought as to why, halts, and then reconsiders. He watches the figure queue in front of the cashier and decides to wait, leaning against the glass pane beside the doors.

He comes, through the whirring sound of automated doors. One step out, and his gaze aligns with the Spider head's Black Widow, and like an involuntary twitch, his head snaps toward Kuroro.

"That's a nice bike," Kuroro juts his chin at the boy's bike. "Very recognizable. Daringly bold, even."

The boy cocks an eyebrow, "Doesn't look like your kind of colour."

"No, not personally, but it quite suites you," he smiles, baring pearl-white teeth. "I can appreciate that."

Unabashed scrutiny, wide brown eyes counting and measuring each breath of word—learning each and every nuance, every quirk and flick of dark abyssal gaze.

"Did you buy it yourself?" Kuroro veers the boy's focus back onto conversation.

A shrug, "Took the bike off the hands of someone who wanted to get rid of it. I did a bit of refurbishing afterwards."

"The rims?"

"Did those."

"Beautiful addition."

Again, wide-eyed dissection of every expertly placed transition, every praise sliding off that practiced tongue.

A chuckle, "Kuroro Lucifer. I didn't get to introduce myself last time, and I want to leave a good impression with a neighbouring gang."

The boy considers the hand outstretched, trailing his observant eyes up that strong arm to find that perfectly amicable smile and down again. "Kurapika." He lets the outstretched hand stay singularly outstretched.

Unfazed, Kuroro retracts his hand. "No last name?"

Kurapika hums, stepping around Kuroro while twisting the cap off his water. He stops in front of the Spider head, pulling his head back for one large swig.

"Maybe when I actually care for an impression," Kurapika tosses a sparing last glance over his retreating shoulder, " _Kuroro._ "


	7. Double Trouble

**7\. Double Trouble**

"Those kids,"

The pair of them, dipping in and out, and up and behind, of alleys, of dumpsters, of every day in the week, together—a package deal of the annoying variation. Persistent like stains of ink that won't lift off.

Always after three. Mostly before six. Then again, after seven.

Never seen with their bike within vicinity, intentionally concealing their location, they still manage to find and keep up with the Spider.

Three to six: a faint feeling of being watched.

Seven to twelve: the rumbling of far-off engines and fading voices.

Four thirteen:

"getting aggressive, aren't they?"

Standing across the street, bike against their back, looking, waiting, beckoning.

The shrewd one blinks, challenging a reaction with a thin frown upon his mouth. The simple one glares, hot brown eyes and quiet fight.

"I think they're quite cute, actually."

Two displeased glares directed at Four.

"I wouldn't say cute, but they're somethin' alright."

They pass him, ignoring the wave he sends their way. Each set of footsteps adds another limb to their backs, circling them in, the deeper they venture. In front of the head, sat with his arms sprawled over the handles of his bike, they stop.

And stare. At the head, between them, at the head again.

The head blinks.

"We just wanted to say that we will be settling here awhile."

The simple one states, not too friendly a tone.

"Oh? I didn't know 'just saying' involved one week of tailing."

The head returns the glare with a blank stare.

"Nah, that was us scoping out the competition."

The shrewd one shrugs.

"And your evaluation?"

He tips his silver head.

"Can't say. You're kinda weird."

 _Whimsical, not weird._

"And you're kind of young."

And those cool blue eyes reflect a mind of trained skepticism, reworked and refined to appraise behind hooded guises of childish intentions. A glint of mischief, perhaps. Or maybe just obligated bravado, with that pointed smile.

"And does being young stop anybody?"

 _Indeed._

"When it counts, I'd say, most."

The glaring one asks, with a self-assured demeanour that has Four reverberating.

"What about you?"

 _Oh._

"Hmm."

Silver-hair elbows his friend.

" _We_ —will be around awhile."


	8. I Can't Help Wondering

**8\. I Can't Help Wondering**

Whimsical, not weird. _Whimsical_.

And being young, what of it? Where does it stop being a factor of consideration? Is youth a relative measure? Yes, it is. To? To oneself, to groups, to mortality, to knowledge and wisdom. Now, really, _what of it?_ In the context of gangs, or more realistically here, non-criminal gangs of school boys and company—a group of _actual_ delinquents would be of greater concern. To maintain a social image? Whatever the case, there is no threat, and seems to be more of a passing phase of adolescence. Then when does it matter? He would not mind a young member, if all other criteria are satisfied. In child labour? Well, circumstances differ. Voluntary labour, admirable. The other, understandably scorned. Prodigal talents of young, uncommon, but not rare. Child criminals, also not so rare. Child murderers, circumstances again. And yes, _Yes, that,_ he darts a passing glance at Hisoka, shuffling cards between his hands. _Hisoka definitely would. Personally, I find it quite distasteful._

Pink hair disappears behind a pale face as Hisoka turns to catch his lingering gaze. Cards lost from masterful maneuvers, lay strewn across the pebbled dirt of the forgotten construction site. Hisoka's hands wander toward his chin, holding it up as a deliberate smile spreads before him. Those sharp talons tap, tap, tapping away at his thinning lips.

"Was that really alright?"

He inclines his head for Hisoka to elaborate.

"Letting those two leave just like that."

He hums, noticing the stares of the other members as they tune into their conversation.

"Do you feel threatened by two middle school boys, Hisoka?"

A flash of red tongue swiping along the bottom lip. "They do have a threatening charm about them, if you get me. Makes me want to bad things to them."

Phinks makes a disgruntled noise to his right, and Feitan scorns in effect.

"Keep your pedophilic comments to yourself, Hisoka," Nobunaga cautions, "I gotta say those kids got guts though. Could make fine members."

"Now, what kind of bad things are you implying I want to do?" Hisoka's smirk becomes feral.

"No, they're too much trouble." Machi bypasses Hisoka's retort, ceasing that branch of discussion.

"They're interesting, but I wouldn't go as far as to recruit them, no."

"But was it really ok to let them go?" Pakunoda questions, "What if they were to follow us on a mission."

"What the Spider does is no secret. Let them. If they decide to meddle, we'll deal with them then."

A snake wrapping its tail around prey, unrelenting and with a hiss that cuts beneath fur and hide. The golden eyes unblinking, waiting for a chance to sink its fangs into the first bite.

"Now, I can't help but wonder that perhaps this might be personal."

Fangs.

"Is there something you're trying to say, Hisoka?"

Flickering red forked tongue.

"No, I mean what I say; and I've said what I mean."


	9. We Who Bore

**9\. We Who Bore**

It happens like a replay of last week. Tailing as per schedule, method as per usual, hostile as per intention. A replay of exact events when he is with the gang. What differs (and is differing quite frequently, mind) is when he is not with the gang.

When he is sitting by the window of a half dilapidated café with the only other patron at his elbow, peering over at his copy of _Linguistic Development in the Isolated Post-Pubescent,_ iron-curled locks falling over his fingertips, where they lie against the page.

Blinking their watchful eyes.

When he is wading between the clusters of loud party-goers and late night wanderers in the central downtown nightlife, trying to stall until the night stretches past midnight.

Frowning, knowing full well why.

When he receives the inconvenient company of another meagre gang the Spider may have done ill upon in the past, trapped within the cigarette shop where he stopped to grab a drink. He had sensed them enclosing, seen the first man in denim breaking out of traffic and circling back to the shop once he recognized the Black Widow. In the moment between him stepping up to the cashier and him slipping the change back into his wallet, the man's entourage had already arrived to hide themselves within the throngs of moving pedestrians. While the cashier busies himself with the next customer, he slips into the corridor labeled 'Staff Only' and gets creative with the alarm system and fire extinguisher he finds attached to the wall.

Gaping at the chaos, they miss him fleeing the scene.

When it is Wednesday. When he is reclining into a couch, a weathered excavation journal in his hands and a Jatutr dictionary turned down in his lap.

Strolling in, settling down, a table on the wall opposite him.

He thumbs the bottom corner of the page. _Dental structure with protruding canines much like wolves, lions, predators, but otherwise hominin._ The thin yellow paper crinkling between his fingers as he flips the page. _Only one sample was excavated; insufficient evidence to conclude a new hominin species was discovered._

Propping a hardcover up, they sneak glances between whispers and pages.

Worn page after worn page, he faithfully ignores them. One of them seems to grind his teeth and seethe something to the other. He wonders if maybe this has become more like a stubborn game of endurance than a posturing contest between two gangs in such close proximity. Though he knows as well as they, that this is not about territory. So he pays no attention to the eyes screaming for a confrontation, continues not to, until the sudden frantic flutter of backpacks, arms, large picture books and tall hardcovers proves too great a temptation.

Kicking backpacks under chairs; diving noses into thread bound seams.

He knows why, when notices the figure meandering down the centre aisle, head turned toward the placards labelling each shelving unit. And he watches as the figure turns, brows knit and confusion clear, to inspect the tufts of black spikes and white curls growing out of _Following Instructions for Dummies_ and _Human Anatomy: Reproductive Systems_ respectively, like a canine picking up a scent it is much too familiar with. He sees the boy reach for the tufts before the boy himself blocks the view of the two with his back.

 _"…Homework…" "…Gon's idea…" "…Nothing happened…"_

He manages to avert his gaze just before three pairs of eyes focus onto his lounged form. _Dental structure with protruding canines much like wolves, lions, predators, but otherwise hominin._ He has read this. _Only one sample was excavated; insufficient evidence to conclude a new hominin species was discovered._

Scuffing heels on thinned carpet come to a halt before him. "Hi."

He looks up. It was the dark haired one, blinking his unrepentant eyes, but wearing a chastised crease between his brows. The other one stands a step offside, wearing no appearance of chided bashfulness. "Hello."

"My name is Gon. I'm sorry we kept followed you. Let's get along."

 _Gon._ He fights the smile wanting to curl around his lips. Keeping his expression blank, he turns to address the unnamed boy slouching casually. The boy meets his eyes, shrugs a shoulder, and sighs.

"I'm Killua. Sorry about being annoying, I guess."

 _Impertinent_ , but he nods. "Apology accepted. I'm Kuroro."

Hoisting bags after them, they head for the door, mumbling, "See ya."

Before he could dip his head between pages and resume the appearance of focused reading, the third member strides over to take Gon and Killua's place. This time, he could not kill the smile budding at the edges of his lips soon enough to bother.

"If they have done anything offensive, I apologize. They bore easily."

The smile spreads from their modest corners. "I figured as much. Don't worry, they were more amusing than threatening." In fact, "Some of my members are quite fond of their antics."

Frowning, the boy says, "Keep the clown away from them."

 _Hisoka._ The man is too curious and meddlesome, he'd have to remind the fool. However, he knows he cannot get between Hisoka and his subjects of interests without consequence. "I can only let him know."

Not the answer he was hoping for, seeing as the frown on the boy's face darkens. He shifts to pick up his journal, catching the boy's gaze slide between the journal to the dictionary on his lap, frown easing into inquisitive nature. "It's an excavation journal detailing the findings from the old North Rihgur. Do you believe in human hybrids?"

"No, but if there is evidence otherwise, it's not a matter of whether I believe it or not."

"Oh, this holds no evidence towards hybrids," he taps his finger against the cover. "It speculates a possible new hominin species. I just thought it'd be more interesting if it were about hybrids."

Reading about something absurd, "It would be."

He runs a finger along the width of the pages. "I'll be done in an hour; I can lend it to you then, if you're interested." The boy's amber-brown eyes (that the library's fluorescent lights do no justice) startle alert, darting between the journal, the dictionary, and him.

Cautiously, "I'll be around for an hour."

Gladly, "Then I'll find you in an hour, Kurapika."


	10. Business as Usual

**10\. Business as Usual**

"Kuroro, my group is ready."

"We're ready too."

"How about your group, Feitan?"

"Just about. Waiting on Phinks to get back to me."

"Franklin?"

"We're set, too."

"Good. Standby until Sunday."


	11. Missing

**11\. Missing**

Days go by strikingly monotonous. Which is not a bad thing, but he thinks he might miss the young duo.

Well.

Maybe not the duo, per se, but _something_.


	12. Something

**12\. Something**

Sunday comes, with all-but-one of the limbs huddled around him at their usual hangout. The sky has yet to be dusted with the star's twinkle, so they wait.

The limbs mingle, arguing, arm-wrestling, and they don't spare the final limb a glance when he struts in with his heels clicking and shoulders rolling back. But Kuroro sees it, and is even given a wink in return.

He lowers the book between his knees. "We're on schedule. Get ready to leave in ten minutes."

A chorus of acknowledging hums answer him.

Four lingers by the front, peering idly down at the cards between his fingers. He watches the limb arrange the cards around, humming a children's rhyme. Just as he seems to be satisfied with his hand, a silver bike eases to a halt two feet from where he stands.

And where there is a silver bike, there follows a black and a red bike.

And when he catches sight of those red rims, that is what his gaze latches onto: the red accelerating, slipping through that two-feet gap between thirteen and the silver bike, knocking off the cards proffered to the two young boys (one of whom already has a hand outreached).

And while the rider turns to hurl the crumpled hand back at Four, Kuroro captures a blink of his attention before he is pulling the rest of his misfit gang away with him.


	13. Hide

Chapter Text

 **13\. Hide**

The heist was a success; enough to finance the rest of their group activities for the year to come.

Which is why he is slouched over the handles of his bike, waiting for the woman in the food truck to assemble his dinner and brew his coffee instead lounging at his preferred café closer to the Spider's base.

Meaning it is a pleasant surprise, when he averts his gaze from his rain sodden fringe, to find a pair of glassy eyes watching him curiously on Monday night.

 _Golden honey_ , refractive hues encased in marble kaleidoscopes that tease the world behind curtains of blond lashes.

 _Catch me, catch me, if you can._

Tonight too, a cool autumn evening where breaths take shape in the air, they are guarded by his gang of three. There is no threat in a number so small; no extra threat in the black leather on their shoulders or the loud hum of engines. Not when he has a gang of twelve at his call.

Yet tonight too, he watches, alone on his dark, dark bike, hair dripping the aftermath of an earlier rainfall. Wait, even when he finally manages to catch those honey marbles for a second longer than usual, he waits quietly on the worn leather seat.

 _Not yet; not tonight._

He smiles, waving the steaming coffee he finally receives in the air.


End file.
